this will not be an interesting post. my proposal’s due. my head is a mass of rants n tangents. i write things down and the rants and tangents uncoil from my pen and go skittering around all over the desk, sometimes landing on a page, sometimes on a post-it note, sometimes they go off on the road to join the circus. “take me with you! I want to join the circus! I can pick up heavy things!” (oh, i abhor exclamation marks, but i don’t know how to express the yearning I feel in any other way). Anyhow. I want to be on the trapeze, but i’m kind of stiff and clunky and i’m afraid of heights. especially heights that i’m swinging around in on a thin rope…When you’re on a trapeze are you “in” the heights? never mind. it’s all my thoughts taking off all over creation, like little imps and gremlins, they won’t do my bidding, i start something and then another one is tugging on my pant leg, demanding attention–sometimes they’re like bees, swarming about and i can’t get ’em finished, i have to keep swatting them away so i can even see…
never mind. here’s something–one of my crackbook friends is going off to some fucking “feminist porn” convention. Isn’t that an oxymoron? “feminist pornography”. if you answered “no” you fail. Why are so many women rushing to get to the lowest common denominator? Why?
i might muse more on this but i have a methods chapter to write. and a proposal. and finish this fucking poster. and make welsh cakes. I love welsh cakes. they taste like Grandma’s kitchen and Grandpa’s work room in his garage, and our kitchen in the seventies.
next life, I want to come back in the 1970s. it was such a great decade. and i was too young to fully appreciate it. maybe we all were. things weren’t perfect, not by a long shot, but there was lots of action. lots of Feminist direct action (the abortion caravan–remember that?). and the American Indian Movement. And the Civil Rights movement. and the Quakers. and all these rape crisis lines were starting up, and Helen Reddy sang “I am woman”. but, you know. there was also the Gong Show. with Chuck Barris. And casual sexism that was stultifying and maddening. but there still is, there still is.
i’m too tired to finish this. I shouldn’t even publish it, but i’m gonna. then i’m gonna run a bath and read Hannah Arendt and get into clean pyjamas and go to bed.
night-night, whoever’s reading this. i’m glad you read me.